


if on a winter's night a raindrop

by vifetoile



Category: Sen to Chihiro no Kamikakushi | Spirited Away, 東京ゴッドファーザーズ | Tokyo Godfathers (2003)
Genre: Canonical Transgender Character, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Gen, Homeless Character, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Random Encounters, Reunions, Tea and Sympathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-08 03:08:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20290924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vifetoile/pseuds/vifetoile
Summary: She is a widow, living on the streets. He is a rootless dragon-spirit, trapped in servitude. And they’re both in Tokyo, and it’s New Year’s Eve, and, hey, no one should have to spend New Year’s alone.Years later, they meet again.





	if on a winter's night a raindrop

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This idea just occurred to me in that weird space between dream and wakefulness. I wrote down the whole idea quickly, and it tugged at my heartstrings. 
> 
> I refer to Haku as “Kohaku-River” for his full name, as I’m writing in English and that seemed the best way to bridge the gap; I refer to Hana as “Miss Hana” because for a reader, “Haku” and “Hana” could very easily get mixed up. Quick legibility is important.

It started to rain in Tokyo at two o’clock. Umbrellas blossomed up and down the street, like dark flowers, and people barely slowed down in their hustle—everyone always has somewhere to be, isn’t that so?

There was one man on the sidewalk who didn’t carry an umbrella. He didn’t even lift the collar of his navy-blue, woolen coat. He tilted his head—he seemed to be listening to the rain, what gossip and news it could carry his way. He looked east, and gave a little nod, and set off in that direction. As he strode down the street, passersby gave him a glance or two—he was a remarkably handsome man, with long hair tied back.

He approached a crosswalk that teemed with pedestrians. At the crosswalk there was a certain woman, middle-aged and tall, wearing a red hat. She was waiting to cross north. This woman glanced at him, then looked again—her memory tugged at her—and then the man pushed past the pedestrians and walked right into traffic, not breaking his stride—

A horn squealed, as light flooded his eyes the man realized what a terrible mistake he’d made— but someone gripped his arm fiercely and pulling him back to the sidewalk. The red-hatted woman turned him towards her, and hollered a few choice swearwords at the passing motorist. Before the man had even gotten his bearings, she had turned her tirade onto _him_.

“Look at you, walking into traffic like that! I would expect better of any country backwater bumpkin! You could have been crushed, and think of the poor girl waiting for you back home, or your poor mother at least, if you had been—“

Now the man was looking at her, and what had tugged at her memory tugged at his too, and he asked, “Miss Hana?”

She looked at his face again. The initial panic had passed, and now her eyes widened with recognition.

At the same time, both said, “_It’s you!_”

000

Let’s go back sixteen years. Now we are in February of 2002, a damn bitter time of year to be in Tokyo. You’d rather be just about anywhere else in Japan. Go south, where it’s warm, or escape to the mountains, where at least it’s pretty. Even if you do find winter and snowflakes to be spiritually rejuvenating—and some souls do—there’s precious little that’s elevating about cement and exhaust and ragged sunlight and the filthy snow of a city. As for specifics, well, Miss Hana would say that we’re in Arakawa. Kohaku-River would say that we are in the domain of the Esteemed Sumida River. Let’s start with his take on the matter.

In those days, his true name had been stolen from him, so the name Haku was his chain and calling-card. When in human shape, he looked to be about thirteen years old, with dark hair, intense eyes, and a cold demeanor. On this February evening he was on an errand for Yubaba. She had given him a pendant for his belt—with this charm, he could travel into the human world through certain gates and shrines. She had also made him don iron anklets, so he could not turn dragon, and if he tried to flee, she could track him with more magic.

_She would bind my tongue if she could_, Haku thought when he remembered these spells and bindings. He ground his teeth together and held his head high. _I just need to bide my time, and someday I’ll be free_.

Summer of 2003 would change him; summer of 2003 would bring a human girl to Yubaba’s bathhouse, a girl who would save Haku and retrieve his real name from the river of her own memory. But it was not summer of 2003 yet. It was midwinter, and tomorrow would be the Lunar New Year.

New Year. Yubaba was sending Haku out to threaten a _kami _of an Arakawa office building—Yubaba had done this _kami _a favor, and now she was calling in her debts. Haku was her hired muscle, but in respect to the season (and to show off her own fortune) Yubaba had dolled him up good and proper. His deep teal overcoat was Western-style, and it shimmered with what looked like silk embroidery. All illusion, of course. It was magicked to appear beautiful and rich, and to provoke awed whispers at Yubaba’s wealth. Haku would have torn it off and thrown it in the cistern. He turned the corner, and distantly noted a human across the street. Haku would give his coat to a wretched _human _if he could, if Yubaba’s magic would let him—

A horrible noise pounded his ears—a racking cough. Haku stopped and looked around.

The human was leaning against the nearest wall, and trying to clear their lungs, with an awful deep cough. They spat, and coughed again.

Haku hesitated. His destination—he looked the way he’d been going—Yubaba would be—

Another cough, and his mind was made up. In an instant he was across the street, by the person’s side. “Pardon me, are you alright?” he asked.

The person turned away from him, spat one more time, and then—Haku was stunned to hear a faint chuckle. “I’ll be alright.” The voice was a mellow alto, using the feminine “I.”

“I beg pardon, there’s nothing funny here. You are seriously ill, ma’am,” Haku said.

A faint exclamation. “Ah! That serious tone, that elegant diction… Have my dreams come true? On this bitterest night, has a knight come at last to sweep me off my feet?” The woman turned, and saw Haku, and stared. It was a silent moment—snow began to fall, and Haku observed the woman had a long, almost rectangular face, hair chopped indifferently but styled with care, and a few missing teeth. And there was a smell—she hadn’t showered in awhile. Then the woman exclaimed,

“_What the hell are you, twelve_?”

She started to laugh, and then started to apologize, and then she laughed again, and then the cough came back. Haku by this time was thoroughly confused, and wondering what the joke was, but the cough grounded him. “Ma’am,” he said, “we need to get you home. Do you live nearby?”

“I was just on my way—This way—“ the woman gestured vaguely.

Haku, in a fluid motion, put one arm around the woman’s and began to support her. From the moment she felt him she stiffened, and Haku could smell fear—she’d been hurt before, by strangers on the street and people who should have cared. “Lead on, please,” he said to her.

“Excuse me—“ she coughed one, two, three last times into her closed fist, and started to lead Haku down the little street.

“I am very sorry for laughing,” she said as they walked, “but this time of year is always vexing—the cold gets to you, and you fall to dreaming—but if you’re not careful the dreams can eat you up and you’re a Popsicle in the morning. It’s only that, you speak in such a _formal _way, old-fashioned as a Lady Murakami novel.”

“I am aware,” said Haku.

“I even fooled myself for a moment into dreaming that, well, I think I mentioned the knight and the white horse and the shining castle.”

“Something like that.” Truth be told, Haku was rather more at sea with those references. He knew very little about the weird forest-bound fairy tales the Westerners had brought with them.

“And then I turned, and instead of meeting a gallant, strapping Osakan, it’s—“ she turned to him. “—Well, wait a minute. How old _are _you?”

“I’m older than I look,” Haku said. It was perfectly true. “Which way to turn?”

“Oh, this way—your mother will be worried sick. A cold night like this, and New Year to boot!”

“You celebrate the Lunar New Year?”

“Well, of course, in my way.” On their right, a homeless encampment came into view. She went on, “I may not have a dime, but a celebration always lifts the heart… Well, here we are. Home sweet home.”

Haku stared. The woman picked her way between the tents, and halted before one that was decorated with a broken, sky-blue umbrella.

“You live _here_?” Haku asked.

“That’s rude,” said the woman.

“I’m sorry,” Haku’s apology was sincere, “I just didn’t realize—anyone actually could live like this—“ he picked over the same route that the woman had taken, as she bent and grunted her way into her own tent. He knelt at the entrance and peered in.

“Well, you’re clearly moneyed. You have to make allowances for the upper classes, because they have no understanding of life.”

“Are you going to be alright? Your cough—“

“I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine, I just need to rest up some.”

Haku tried to get a better look. Inside the tent, he saw the faint traces of dignity and decoration—rags of cute tenugui tacked up, magazine pictures arranged into a collage. He had not thought in years about how humans could lose their homes and live in such poverty. And this woman—what meager excuse for a home she’d had, she’d invited him to the doorway, and that in itself was a New Year’s miracle. Any intruder could ruin this. Was she foolish? Indifferent to the danger he posed? No—maybe she estimated that she could outwit a spoiled adolescent.

A clock struck the hour. Haku turned—the _kami _of the office building, Yubaba would be so mad if he was late—

“I have to go,” he said.

“You’ve been more than kind.” The woman sounded sincerely grateful. “I’m afraid I can’t repay you.”

“It’s no matter.”

“Of course it matters, it’s the New Year!” The woman had been rummaging through a grocery bag: she brought up a box of medicine with a cry of “Ah-ha!” To Haku she said, “Go on your way, don’t worry about me. When you think of your debtors, think kindly on poor Miss Hana.”

Haku sighed—there seemed to be nothing else for it. “Goodbye, then, Miss Hana,” he said. He got to his feet and walked away, and vaguely heard her call of goodbye.

His mind stayed in the little tent, even as his feet carried him back to his original route. He sighed out a spell—just enough of his magic lingered there, so he could do a little good. The old kettle, stiff with hard water stains—it would boil quickly and true, and make nourishing medicine from the packet of powder. There was a secondhand hot-water bottle that sprang a leak sometimes—there would be no leak tonight, but soothing heat.

The sigh dissipated, and as Haku reached the main road again, the tent faded from his mind. Well. That was _one _good turn, at least. It wouldn’t balance his books, but it was kind—Miss Hana would greet the New Year feeling better—

Memory like a candle-flame in his heart: he had been generous, once; he had taken care of people who lived by him, and they had taken care of him in turn, and the rightness of it all, he had been _home_—

The flicker vanished. Haku stopped, and swallowed hard. He could not afford to weep, or chase after memories that he could never catch. He could not leap into the air. He put one foot in front of the other.

Back to work.

000

“Did I dream that boy?”

After eleven, now. Miss Hana was awake again—she had had the most refreshing nap—and she couldn’t shake the memory of that formal voice, then the striking eyes—no, Hana, go back. She’d first noticed the _coat_, and it could have been Valentino—it must have been a dream. Men who wore Valentino did not come to this neighborhood, and certainly not on foot, and bet-your-last-red-cent they didn’t assist homeless bums. But if she was going to dream, she would have imagined a rescuer who was older than goddamn _twelve!_

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Miss Hana muttered to herself, as she fixed a cup of tea. For some reason those cheap teabags were really hitting the spot. “I’m glad to be home, though. A quiet blessing for this New Year,” she murmured, as she pulled a magazine towards her—it was three months out of date, but Hana liked to thumb through it anyway, check the horoscopes—

“Why aren’t you asleep?”

Miss Hana jumped. The boy was back, looking through her tent flap, bold as brass, and commenting on her sleeping habits—the nerve!

“You’re not a dream!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Checking in on you. I thought I’d find you sleeping, resting.”

“I woke up.” She was still trying to process this.

“But you made tea.” The boy frowned, as if he genuinely couldn’t understand why a little hot medicine and tea didn’t fix everything. He looked so sincere, Hana almost burst out laughing again. What came out was a dry chuckle.

“My lungs are better, but my hip woke me up. You’re sweet to check up, but you should run along home.”

The boy hesitated, just a fraction of a moment, before saying, “I’d rather not.”

_I’d rather not_. The words hung in the air between them. The boy, bless his young heart, he looked as if he wished to take them back. He had lost face, but Hana could—

“If you have time to spare, then,” she said, as if this was no great matter, “I was about to have a cup of tea. Would you join me?”

“Yes, thank you,” said the boy.

“Come on inside,” she said. The kettle started to boil, and she fussed about with tea rather than watch the elegant boy pick his way across her piles of things. To him they doubtless looked like garbage; to her they each had a purpose. He knelt in the empty space she kept cleared for visitors, and Miss Hana took pity on him. He looked so incredibly out of place, in a way that went beyond his coat and old-world manners. He looked alarmed by her things, and an absurd thought came into her mind—a dragon, surrounded by the wreckage of World War Two bombers. But Miss Hana dismissed the thought. He was just a boy, and doubtless stinking rich. They really did come from different worlds, he and she.

“What’s your name?” she asked him.

“Haku,” he answered. He looked away, and his hands made fists on his knees. “That’s what you can call me.”

“Then Haku, many thanks for sharing this New Year’s with me. For you, I’ll even dig out the good stuff.”

“Come again?”

“I understand this brand—“ she dug out a small and battered box of tea—“has been around since before the Meiji Restoration, and I save it for special occasions. And of course, we must have a bite to eat.” She suppressed a smile at the look on his face. “You didn’t think I was going to serve sake to a child, did you?”

“I’m not a child,” he said. He said it in _exactly _the tone a teenager would use.

“You’re still not getting sake. But for my money, these are very nice.” She opened a little sealed bag and held it out to him. “Go on, help yourself.”

He stared at the bag, then reached in and took one. “What are these?” he asked.

“Freeze-dried strawberries with white chocolate,” she replied. “Delicious, and non-perishable. A way to make this night more special.” He looked deeply suspicious as he inspected it. “It’s not going to kill you,” she added.

“I’m sorry, that was very rude. I’ve never eaten chocolate before.”

“You’ve never eaten chocolate?”

He halted, and then said, “I’m a bit sheltered.”

“Well, take a bite!” Miss Hana gestured. The boy was clearly full of doubts, but he kept his face somewhat neutral and took a bite. His eyes widened.

“This is good!”

“I told you. The good stuff for my guest. And you’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” she added, making a grand, munificent gesture. It was a delight, she realized, to have a guest, and have the chance to treat that guest. _Generosity _gave her a head rush.

“I won’t impose on you very long,” said Haku, and Miss Hana again reflected on his excellent manners. “My employer demands a lot of me.”

“Your employer?” Miss Hana sat up straight. “Young man, what kind of employment are you in?” Why hadn’t she seen it before? Perhaps she had been too ill to really gather the time of day, put two and two together.

“Whatever my boss wants,” said Haku, and he couldn’t entirely keep his voice from sounding bitter.

“Are you being exploited? Are you being trafficked? Forgive my rudeness, but young man, if your very body is being abused, then I must insist I get you help!”

Haku started. “Miss Hana--”

“I have one favor I can call in, I’ve been keeping it for a true emergency, and _this_\--”

“Miss Hana, I am not being trafficked! Please calm down. My employer…” He hesitated, then huffed a sigh. “She is a sorceress of evil potent and I absolutely despise her, but she has a hold on me that I cannot break. She remembers things about me that I have forgotten, and I cannot retrieve, and there’s no way out of it, and I’m stuck in her employ, doing her dirty work, until she gets bored of me or until an even worse spirit comes and kicks her out and enslaves me instead.”

There was silence. He picked up another little strawberry, and dared a glance at Miss Hana. She was regarding him with wide, thoughtful eyes.

“A sorceress, hmm?” she said.

“You don’t believe me, of course,” he added in a rush. She couldn’t believe him. If she believed him, it could mean even worse trouble, with Yubaba and border-guardian spirits and the _paperwork _and…

Miss Hana waved a hand. “Your domineering grandmother has all legal rights of guardianship over you, and it seems a long, long way until you reach your majority. That’s the code, yes? These are matters that are too terrible to put into clear words. You’re turning your anguish into poetry, which is a fine tradition. More tea?”

“Yes, please.” As she refilled his cup, he added, “I’m afraid I was rude. I lost control, and I apologize.”

“Not at all. It’s good to get out your anger before the New Year really starts,” said Miss Hana. More slowly, she said, “Even in poetry, you sound very unhappy.”

“That’s not the right word,” said Haku. “I am… I used to have direction, but now I’m bound to another’s will. I don’t have much hope for my future.”

“Ah, young man, you mustn’t give into despair. A wise man once told me, in your darkest hour, hope is something that you give yourself.”

Haku didn’t know what to say. He lowered his head rather than try an answer.

“I was a little older than you,” Hana’s voice had turned thoughtful; her eyes were fixed on a magazine picture showing a hillside covered in flowers; “when I had my first brush with despair. The future was terrifying. For me it seemed to stretch on and on. I would forever be unhappy in my body, unlucky with my money, and bitterest of all, I would never find a love to anchor me. Who would love me, in my mistaken shell, with my ridiculous poses and primps?”

Haku couldn’t look at her. Her every word could have been taken from his own heart, cut out with an abalone knife. He knew he was a water spirit, but he kept himself calm and placid by choice. Now he could feel the riptide of despair pulling at him, the horrible thought of a long, long future in bondage. He wanted to run, he wanted to tear out of this tent and fly off, away from this homeless woman and her terrible words.

“Of course, I was an idiot.”

Haku startled and looked at her again. If her smile was anything to go by, she relished his surprise. “At seventeen, I thought I knew everything. Six months later, I met an Osaka man, and he drove me crazy with his boasting. A week later and his name echoed in my mind; a month later we stood on a bridge all night, talking, laughing. My Ken, my good man. He turned upside-down everything I knew. Haku, you have sterling qualities.”

He had a hard time believing it. Working for Yubaba drew on his bitterness, his coldness. His worst fear was that Yubaba was shaping him into a being like herself—miserly, selfish, arrogant, cruel.

“You’ll find your proper path, and you’ll find love. Love so wonderful, you won’t believe your luck. If you’ll take advice from an old fool, salvage hope.”

Before Haku could answer, the bells began to chime midnight.

In English, Miss Hana said, “‘Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world.’” She translated it into Japanese, and added, “Of course, Mister Shakespeare was an Englishman, and hence suspicious of good spirits. But don’t hold that against him, he’s really rather talented.”

Haku got to his feet. “I really should be going.”

Miss Hana made a polite protest, but they both knew the hour was very late. She followed him to the gate of the encampment, neither one defining if this was for Miss Hana’s safety, or Haku the evident moneybags.

“Thank you for your gracious hospitality,” said Haku, bowing.

Miss Hana returned the bow. “Thank you for greeting the New Year with me,” she said.

Haku turned and departed, back the way he had come. His conscience was easy: he’d tucked a few thousand yen notes (Yubaba gave him some mortal money for emergencies in the human world) into a cubby of her tent, somewhere where she would find it sooner, rather than later. It was time to get going, and let this strange encounter end, and live on in memory.

He heard Miss Hana speak, and stopped at once. He looked back. The woman’s eyes were on the sky, and she said in a measured voice,

“_Three things are ever welcome:_

_Courtesy, a kind guest,_

_And sweet water._”

The formal name for water sent a little chill down Haku’s spine. Miss Hana couldn’t possibly _know_. She was a mortal woman. But poets had special license. He bowed to her again from a distance, and she returned it.

It was a good poem. It stayed with him as he returned to the fenced circle of his life.

As for Miss Hana, she returned to her tent, hoping to snatch a little more sleep. She would think about the boy often in days to come, and pray silently that he would find his way.

000

“It’s _you_!” each said at the same time.

It was as unlikely as two water drops, which met once in a mountain stream, meeting again as raindrops on a glass sheet. So unlikely, but here they were.

“Look at you!” Miss Hana exclaimed. “The New Year’s boy! You look so well! My, my, taller even than me! A handsome gentleman,” she realized she was babbling, and covered her mouth with one hand. But she kept smiling and looking at him. The Haku before her had fulfilled his promise to be very handsome. He was tall, with broad shoulders. He wore a grey raincoat; it was clean but looked secondhand. But what Miss Hana liked best was in his expression. His eyes were warm, and he couldn’t entirely repress a surprised smile. He looked healthy. He looked well.

“It is so good to see you again,” he agreed. “You look like you’re doing well.”

“I’ve come into some better days,” she agreed modestly. She quietly rejoiced in her smart red hat, her pretty black gloves, her well-made coat. She was financially stable, and in better health than she’d known in years. She never took those for granted, never. “But I never forgot that New Year’s. No, Haku, I’ve thought of you often.”

A shadow crossed his face. “I’ve left that name behind. My name is Kohaku-River, please.”

He didn’t need to be extra polite. Miss Hana didn’t even blink. “Of course, of course! Kohaku-River, an excellent name. To come into a new name is a fine thing. But Mr. Kohaku-River, do tell, do you have time to have a cup of tea with an old lady? I was headed home. I would love to talk to you, out of the rain and bustle.”

He hesitated. “I couldn’t impose.”

“I insist.”

“You must have a pressing appointment—“

“Please, it would be a delight.”

“If you insist…”

“Besides, I must pay you back for the yen that you left me. Do you think I would forget that? _Au contraire!_” A glint of steel flashed in her eyes. And Kohaku-River knew he was beaten.

“It would be a true pleasure,” he said.

000

From outside, the teashop looked grey and ordinary, even cramped. But the interior was paneled in honey-colored pine, which warmed the light. The teashop owner greeted Miss Hana personally. As he took off his coat, Kohaku-River noticed a little alcove with a statue of Buddha and two sticks of incense. Sitting alongside the statue was a handwritten poem describing the teashop by name, praising its atmosphere of peace and welcome.

“Miss Hana,” he said to her, “Did you write this poem?”

“A weak little tribute,” she said. “A thank-you gift for many happy hours. And yes.”

The teashop owner beamed at Kohaku-River. “We are honored by the patronage of one of our local poets. Miss Hana, you must tell him about your upcoming event!”

“You probably won’t find that interesting,” Miss Hana said, glancing uncertainly at Kohaku-River as they padded down the hallway.

“Oh, but I am interested. I remember the poem that you composed. Now you’re sharing your work with the world. Is that right?”

“It’s a long story.” They took their seats in a secluded booth. Soon each had steaming cups of green tea in front of them. Miss Hana picked up her cup and inhaled the aroma deeply, and Kohaku-River did the same. They toasted one another, and took the first sips.

“I don’t mind long stories,” said Kohaku-River.

“It’s a little complicated, believe me,” Miss Hana added. “I must start by telling you about my beloved goddaughter, Kiyoko.”

“Goddaughter?”

“Yes, Kiyoko, the apple of my eye, the darling of my dotage. She just turned eight at Christmas, a lucky year for a lucky girl. I met her when my friends and I were scrounging through a garbage dumpster on Christmas Eve.”

Kohaku-River had _nearly _taken another sip of tea when Miss Hana said that. Only luck saved him from embarrassing himself completely. He lowered his teacup and said, “I’m sorry, what?”

“Buckle your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night,” said Miss Hana in her very best Bette Davis impression. Kohaku-River did not get that reference, but he listened attentively as Miss Hana related the adventures of six bizarre days between Christmas Eve and New Year’s. Six days full of hustling, fighting, chasing, accusing, and changing diapers, as well as coincidences, families ruined and stitched back together, a winning lottery ticket, an extremely cute baby, Christmas garbage, and miracles.

“Incredible,” he said. “I think you had a few _kami _on your side, at least.”

Miss Hana raised her eyebrows. “Most people think I’m exaggerating when I tell it… Gin says it was just luck, but I don’t think so. I like your interpretation.”

“Please go on?”

They were well into the second pot of tea when Miss Hana wrapped up her story. “Gin, Miyuki, and I divided the lottery ticket between ourselves. Miyuki said we needed the money more, but I insisted. A little more independence from her parents, I think, is only to the good.” She took a sip. “I began helping Mother with the nightclub. I can’t sing like I used to, but I’m told I make a dazzling emcee. And after Gin prodded me for many moons, I finally sent some of my ragged poems where readers might see them. And I’ve enjoyed small success—_OH!_” Her face lit up. “Actually, next week is the release of my second book of poems, and we will hold a celebration and reading at Blossom and Paper Books, just one train stop east from here. Kohaku-River, I _insist _that you join us!”

“Why—yes, I would be honored to join you there.” He said. “What’s the title of this book?”

“Boiling Snow.’ The book is dedicated to Gin and Miyuki, and other fellow souls of the homeless mass. I’ve lost track of most of them. But I hope to make even one person think differently about the bums on the street. Not a bad start, don’t you think?”

“Certainly. I’m—I don’t wish to be too forward, Miss Hana.”

“Try me.”

The corners of his mouth tucked into a little grin. “I am very glad to hear you’ve come to a steadier place in the world. I remember the poem that you composed when we last met—it stayed with me. I used to write poetry, long ago…”

“Did you?”

“Oh no, it was just silly things. Please don’t think that I missed a calling…” His voice trailed off. Centuries ago, in a court populated by river-spirits and dragonfly-princesses, Kohaku-River had competed in poetry contests. His claw-bound calligraphy on paper of plum skins had made many a courtier swoon. But that was all a distant memory now. He could barely remember the pompous haikus he had written, let alone the fun of stringing words together like pearls. Where was that court now? Clinging to a dim corner of a pachinko parlor?

“You should take it up again, maybe. It rewards the soul. I wrote poems for fun, and I’m still surprised I can make a little money. But I’m chattering on about myself! Kohaku-River, how has life treated you? Please tell me you got away from that horrible living situation you were in before.”

“I did,” he said. “All that is behind me. I’m out on my own, and it’s frightening but also exhilarating, you know?”

“Yes, I know.” Miss Hana nodded.

“I finished training, and I started out in the world with hardly anything, but I had my own name again.” And such a light came into his eyes then that Miss Hana couldn’t help prodding him to find out more. He met her eyes and smiled. “What you promised me came true. I found love. I didn’t expect it—I didn’t expect _her_. I did her a good turn, maybe two, and she overpaid the debt. She saved me, body and soul. Love… It’s more wonderful than I could imagine. You were absolutely right.”

“Well, of course I was right.” Miss Hana preened a little. “And where is this lucky girl now?”

“We lost touch.” The mournful lilt to his words said more than the syllables did. “But I’m looking for her again, now that I can be in the—I can move around freely, and I want to find her. I hope she remembers me,” he added in an abrupt rush.

“Why, Kohaku-River,” said Miss Hana, with a smile, “Of course she will. Who could forget you?”

000

Blossom and Paper Books was a compact shop that took up two stories of a building. Their personal motif was a cherry blossom over a curled scroll, and they were just around the corner from an excellent restaurant.

The day of her release party and signing, Miss Hana walked there with her goddaughter, Kiyoko, dancing around her. Kiyoko’s parents were enjoying a leisurely bottle of _sake _at the restaurant behind them, trusting their daughter to her most admirable and bibliophilic godmother.

“So I finished _Anne of Green Gables_, and I think that was good,” said Kiyoko, hopping on one foot at the moment, “Now I’ve started a book called _David Copperfield_ but man it starts slow!”

“Dickens builds his world slowly, my dear,” said Miss Hana as she pushed open the shop door. “It’ll pick up in time, have patience.”

“Welcome!” called an employee.

“Miss Ogino, hello,” said Miss Hana, and Kiyoko echoed her, a bit over-loud, but Miss Ogino never minded.

Miss Hana liked Miss Ogino very much. The young lady was a university student, something about environmental science, or possibly business, or art. She certainly seemed to be the kind of young person who takes an interest in _everything. _The bookshop work helped her pay for housing. Miss Ogino had a way of listening to people to give them her full attention, and by listening carefully she could name, as if by magic, the precise book that that reader needed—even if their own ideas were nowhere near that genre. Was Miss Ogino pretty? No—her features were a little small for her round face. Had her nose been a little longer, or her chin a little pointed— but ah well, we are as the gods make us. Her eyes were always bright and interested, and she listened to children with respect, and she loved to read, so in Miss Hana’s books Miss Ogino was the best kind of person.

“Things are in good order for your event tonight, Miss Hana,” she said to the poetess. “Lots of people have called in to ask for details. The boss is expecting a good turnout.”

“Good, but I hope it doesn’t get chaotic. If I may trouble you…”

“Trouble away.” Miss Ogino leaned in to hear clearly.

“I’m expecting another special guest. I reconnected with him after many years, so I don’t know if he _will _show, but I hope he does.”

“I will be manning the door. You can count on me.” Miss Ogino gave a firm nod.

“I know I can. I just want to make sure he’s welcome—he’s about your age, good-looking man—I don’t know his family name, but his preferred name is Kohaku-River.” She heard a crash deeper in the shop. “Kiyoko!” she called into the shelves. “What have I told you about playing with the Harry Potter books?”

“Sorry, Auntie,” came Kiyoko’s voice, as her head poked into sight.

“Now you’ll clean that up,” Miss Hana said. “I’m not mad, but you must take responsibility.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Hana—“ Miss Ogino’s voice was steady, but her face had gone unusually pale. “That’s an odd name, do you think you could repeat it?”

“Kohaku-River. I know it’s odd. He has an old-fashioned way of speaking, but he’s a perfect gentleman.” She took in Miss Ogino’s nod, and the look in her eyes—“Good heavens, do you know him?”

“He sounds like someone that I knew. Know,” she added. “I haven’t seen him in a long time. But I won’t be sure until I—see him. Ah, Miss Hana—thank you for the warning.”

If Miss Hana’s mind began to race with possibilities—if she began to see the path of two more raindrops converging against all odds, in this whole wrinkled world—if she began thinking like a matchmaking meddler—then the only outward sign was that her eyes brightened. “An old friend of yours? Well, if that’s so, that will be a happy coincidence, I’m sure.” Miss Hana carefully drew some papers from her purse, giving Miss Ogino time to regain her composure. “I’m also going to recite a new poem, and I have it memorized, but these poems tend to just _drop _out of my head while I’m in front of a crowd, so please make sure these papers are at my microphone, so that I may consult them lest my own words desert me.”

Miss Ogino smiled. “You’ve never flubbed a recitation here in my memory.”

“You’re very kind.” She handed the papers to Miss Ogino, and added, “Do feel free to read them.”

Miss Ogino’s eyes scanned the paper. She read,

“_Men dam the rivers, and fish lose their home._

_ The moon loses slivers, and lives lose their track. _

_So much is rift, but I head for the sea. _

_Hope is a gift that is always with me_.”

She smiled up at the writer—and no mistake, there was a glimmer of some deep joy in her eyes that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “I think it’s wonderful.” She handed the paper back over. “I have a good feeling about this event tonight,” she said.

Miss Hana nodded. “So do I. I think a wonderful coincidence is in store for someone. Oh—“ she glanced back, towards the shop window. “Looks like rain is in store, too.”

000

Chihiro Ogino manned the door. If she strained, she could hear the event upstairs in progress. But to be quite honest, her attention was out on the street, in the rain. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, and she tried to calm the river-rush of her pulse, trying not to hope too hard.

And yet. Hope wound its way through her like a cat winding around her ankles. She knew a little of Miss Hana’s history, how she had come to be godmother to that bright girl, Kiyoko. Even in the heart of Tokyo, sometimes gods could knot together the souls who had lost themselves, lost each other—

Oh, god in heaven, Chihiro needed to get her thoughts in order. Of course she was getting muddled and distracted. Even the rain seemed to drum up the past, the bathhouse. For a moment the rain would be a friend, offering comfort with its music, and then the next minute the rain would be a pest, conjuring anxiety and memories—what did he look like, what if she didn’t recognize him, what if he didn’t recognize _her_, what if he looked just the same as before while she was older, what would he think, what would she feel—please, girl, listen to the rain and breathe, just tidy up the perfectly neat stacks and turn back to the window—

And then she saw him.

He hadn’t seen her yet. He was making his way through the rain. No hat, no umbrella. Maybe it was his comfort in the rain, in the water, that had told her who he was—his features and coloring were still unclear. Maybe his magic had emanated out and she’d responded on a subconscious level, her intuition telling her things that intellect alone couldn’t. Maybe it wasn’t magic, it was just the recognition of someone dear to her, a connection time couldn’t erase, that rivers couldn’t erode.

Chihiro decided she didn’t care. She stepped towards the door.

He still hadn’t seen her. He was looking at the street numbers, perhaps confused by human nomenclature.

How appropriate, she thought—when she’d left the spirit-town, she had hurried down the steps, leaving him behind to watch her go. She’d been afraid then—afraid that if she looked back, her fortune would lash back at her and she’d lose all.

But she’d _wanted_ to look back so badly—that’s why she had run.

Kohaku-River’s gaze had stayed with her, even as the dragon boy slipped from her awareness, as she rejoined her parents and the world of her birth, and it had all slipped away from her, to be regained only dream by dream and night by day—

And here she was now, years later, and he was approaching, and she was watching him, but he was the one with no awareness, yet, not yet, not _yet—_

He turned and saw her. Through the window, through the obscuring raindrops, he saw. His entire bearing changed, and he rushed to the door at the same time that she did.

They met in the threshold as the bells chimed over them. All grace and manners forgotten, they stared at each other a minute. He’d gotten taller, so she had to look up at him now, into his astonished green eyes. Rain was spattering onto her best work blouse, but she didn’t care, she was too happy.

“It’s you,” he said.

“It’s you,” she agreed. Awareness of the space seeped back into her. She took his elbow and guided him into the store—the door closed behind him—she automatically took off his coat and set it on the hanger, and he was still staring at her, astonished, his hands half-reaching for her. Chihiro felt like laughter might bubble out of her, sheer joy, but all she could manage was to say, “Kohaku-River.”

The sound of his name galvanized him. “Chihiro,” he said, and his face broke into a smile. She took his hand, and then hugged him tight—propriety had never been her strength, and everyone was upstairs, and oh, bless Miss Hana for this miracle, wouldn’t she gloat to hear about it—and as he hugged her back, and the world _finally _came back to rights, she said, “I have so much to tell you.”


End file.
